The Parpaldia Empire. The Capital City of Esthirant. The First Department of Foreign Affairs.

  The footsteps of the two men echoed, solitary and loud, down the endless enfilade of the First Department's reception hall. Their modern, hard-soled shoes tapped sharply against the perfectly polished, ice-cold marble floor, violating the centuries-old silence of this temple of imperial power. On either side of them, like silent statues, stood guardsmen in crimson, gold-embroidered uniforms. Their faces were impenetrable, their white-gloved hands gripping long-barreled flintlock muskets with fixed bayonets—weapons worthy of Old Earth's museums.

  The high, cavernous hall was designed with a single purpose: to overwhelm. Massive columns of black obsidian vanished into the thick shadows of the vaulted ceiling, which was covered in frescoes depicting the Empire's triumphal victories. The golden imperial crests, engraved on the walls, seemed to gaze down with contempt on anyone who did not belong to the highest caste. The cold, lifeless light of gigantic magical chandeliers, like frozen drops of light, reflected off the polished floor, creating the feeling of a sterile operating room. The air was still, smelling of wax, old parchment, and the faint, metallic tang of ozone from magical artifacts.

  At the very end of this hall, behind an impossibly long table of polished mahogany draped in dark crimson cloth, sat Lady Remille, like a spider in the center of her web. She was the only one permitted to sit, forcing them to walk the entire humiliating path under the gazes of the guardsmen. Her silver hair shimmered in the cold light. The gaze of her gray eyes, the color of a stormy sky, slowly slid over the figures of the two men. She idly toyed with a heavy, jewel-encrusted paper knife, its sharp blade occasionally leaving faint scratches on the polished surface of the table.

  The two diplomats in their stark, dark suits stopped at a respectful distance. Chairs had been pointedly not offered.

  They appeared completely calm, but their faces were as still as masks carved from stone. They were Ambassador Alexey Vishnevsky and Colonel Gruzdev. Their impeccably tailored suits, devoid of any adornment, seemed like a foreign stain in this realm of gold and stucco. They did not stand humbly, their heads bowed. Their posture was erect, their feet shoulder-width apart, their hands clasped behind their backs. This was not the posture of supplicants. It was the stance of soldiers awaiting orders.

  A minute passed. Then a second. Remille remained silent, savoring the moment. The moment of their humiliation. "Worms," she thought, a faint smile touching her lips. "They dared to challenge the Empire, and now they have crawled here, into my lair, to beg for mercy. Let them stand. Let them feel who is the master here."

  Finally, slowly, with an almost lazy grace, she folded her hands on the table and leaned forward slightly. Her thin, bloodless lips curved into a faint, predatory smirk.

  "Welcome, gentlemen," her voice, soft and melodic as the chime of a silver bell, drifted through the echoing hall. But hidden within that melody was a venomous mockery, cold and sharp as a stiletto. "How remarkable. You actually dared to show up. The sovereignty of your… backward country," she paused theatrically, almost offensively, savoring the word like a fine wine, "is literally hanging by a thread. Surely you realize our invasion fleet is already approaching Fenn and will begin its punitive operation in a few hours?"

  She shook her head elegantly, a look of deep, almost maternal regret on her flawless, alabaster face. It was her favorite move—to humiliate an opponent under the guise of sympathy.

  "Ah, my apologies. That probably sounded too insensitive. I forgot that even barbarians have some sort of… feelings," she added with a feigned, sweet smile. And then she allowed herself a short, sharp, almost serpentine laugh. "You were given a list of our generous demands. Well? I hope you have not wasted my precious time and have brought your full and unconditional consent to surrender?"

  Ambassador Vishnevsky didn't even blink. His face remained as inscrutable as a poker player holding a royal flush. Slowly, with almost ritualistic precision, he opened his heavy leather attaché case. His movements were measured and economical—the movements of a man who did nothing superfluous. He took out several sheets of thick, watermarked paper, bound with a golden seal depicting a double-headed eagle. Without a word, he took a few steps forward and, with an almost defiant calm, placed them on the table before Remille, directly in the center of her empty gaze.

  "This is the official response from the government of the Russian Federation, Lady Remille," he said in a flat, emotionless tone. His voice was not loud, but in the perfect acoustics of the hall, every word landed with the weight of a hammer blow.

  Remille squinted with disdainful curiosity, her gaze flicking from the document to him. "Not even afraid. Such arrogance… or stupidity?" she thought. Her long, slender fingers with their perfect manicure elegantly picked up the papers with two fingers. She slowly unfolded them, and her eyes began to dart across the lines, written in a calligraphic, almost mockingly perfect hand. She began to read aloud, and with each word, her voice grew icier, her elegant smile tightening into a predatory snarl.

  "...immediately, within 24 (twenty-four) hours, fully withdraw the invasion fleet from the sovereign territorial waters of the Kingdom of Fenn… Within one week, withdraw the entire expeditionary military contingent currently on its territory… Offer official public apologies to the government and people of the Kingdom of Fenn for the act of unprovoked aggression… And as compensation for the material and moral damages inflicted, pay into the treasury of the Kingdom of Fenn three hundred million pasé… In the event of non-compliance with the aforementioned conditions, the Russian Federation, acting in accordance with the signed treaty as the guarantor of the sovereignty and security of the Kingdom of Fenn, reserves the right to…"

  Her voice broke off. In the ensuing silence, she could be heard swallowing hard. Her eyes, wide with fury and absolute, total disbelief, were fixed on the final line.

  "...reserves the right to undertake all necessary measures of a military, political, and economic nature to compel peace and restore the international legal order."

  Remille froze, her fingers clenching the parchment so tightly it crackled. She threw the papers onto the table as if they were coated in poison and had burned her hands.

  "WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?!" her shriek, high-pitched, almost hysterical, and full of rage, echoed through the cavernous hall, making the crystal pendants on the giant chandeliers tremble. "YOU… WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?! YOU DARE THREATEN THE EMPIRE?! YOU DARE DICTATE TERMS TO US?!"

  She leaped to her feet, her previously pale face flushing a deep crimson. She looked like an enraged goddess, ready to incinerate the insolent fools with a single glance. But the fools didn't even flinch. They just stood there, silently watching her. And in their calm, there was more menace than in her scream.

  Ambassador Vishnevsky met her furious, almost crazed gaze without wavering. His face remained calm, even slightly bored, as if he were observing the predictable tantrum of a spoiled child, not the threats of a superpower's regent. A thought flashed through his mind with the cold precision of an analyst: 'Subject "Cerberus." Reaction to ultimatum: aggression, escalating to irrational threats. Assessment fully confirmed. Psychological stability: low. Prone to escalation. Perfect.'

  "If these conditions are not met," he said, looking her directly in the eye, his voice quiet, almost soft, but in the deafening silence of the hall, it sounded like the crack of breaking ice, "the Armed Forces of the Russian Federation will provide your troops with all necessary assistance for their speedy return to their homeland. In any condition."

  His words, polite but filled with an icy threat, hung in the air. And then Remille laughed. It was not a laugh. It was a hysterical, cracking, shriek full of contempt and impotent fury that cut the ears like a shard of glass.

  "Ha… Hahaha…" her laughter abruptly cut off. She leaned forward over the massive table and hissed, and the fires of hell seemed to dance in her eyes: "You… barbarians. Pathetic, insignificant barbarians. You have no idea what it means to challenge the Empire. So, you insects are declaring war on us?"

  Vishnevsky inclined his head slightly. In the ringing silence that followed, his answer consisted of a single word, spoken as calmly and matter-of-factly as if he were ordering a cup of tea in a café.

  "Yes."

  The effect was like a lightning strike. Remille's face contorted, her aristocratic pallor replaced by blotchy crimson.

  "The audacity! We will reach your pathetic, filthy continent! We will slaughter everyone who dares to call themselves Russian! We will burn your cities and sow your fields with salt! You will regret the day you were born!"

  She shot up from her seat, knocking over her heavy, carved chair with a crash. It hit the marble floor with a deafening crack. But the Russian diplomats were already rising from their seats, silently, in perfect unison.

  "Our conversation is over," Vishnevsky threw out, short and sharp as the crack of a whip.

  They turned. Not quickly, not hurriedly. With a deliberate, almost insulting calm. And, their steps measured on the echoing marble floor, they headed for the exit, not gracing her with another glance, as if she, the regent of a great empire, simply did not exist in that room. Their departure was not a retreat. It was a verdict.

  When the massive bronze doors closed behind them with a dull thud, Remille was left standing alone in the middle of the vast, empty hall. She was trembling all over. Fury, humiliation, fear—all mixed into a single toxic cocktail. She grabbed a heavy crystal glass from the table and, with a scream, hurled it against the wall. The glass shattered into a thousand glittering shards, like her pride, smashed to pieces. Her fingers clenched into fists so tightly that her long, manicured nails dug into the delicate skin of her palms, drawing blood.

  "These barbarians… these savages… They will regret this. I will make them beg for death. I will show them what the wrath of Parpaldia truly means," she whispered, and her whisper was more terrifying than any scream.

  Meanwhile, the Russian diplomats were leaving the palace. Their faces remained impassive. But for a moment, a cold glint of professional satisfaction flashed in Vishnevsky's eyes. War had been declared. And now, their hands were completely untied. In his world, the Parpaldia Empire was nothing more than a backward, third-world country that was about to find out, firsthand, what it meant to confront 21st-century Russia. The lesson promised to be short. And very brutal.

  A gray, damp, pre-dawn haze, saturated with moisture and the smell of an approaching storm, had settled over the Eastern Sea. On the horizon, where a huge, crimson sun, as if engorged with blood, slowly rose from the water, painting the crests of the waves in alarming shades of gold and scarlet, the silence was shattered by a distant, low rumble. It grew with each passing second, transforming into a crushing, vibrating roar that seemed to make the very air tremble, sending a fine, anxious ripple across the surface of the ocean.

  A squadron of twelve MiG-35 multirole fighters, a 4th-generation aircraft, flew in a tight, predatory wedge at an extremely low altitude, practically skimming the wave tops. Their digital pixel camouflage, designed specifically for the maritime theater of operations, blended perfectly with the gray water and sky, making them nearly invisible. The mission assigned to the squadron, call sign "Zmey" (Serpent), was clear and ruthless: find and destroy the aircraft carrier strike group of the Parpaldian invasion fleet before they could launch their Overlord-wyverns toward Fenn.

  In the hermetically sealed cockpit of the lead fighter, illuminated by the soft green glow of multifunctional displays, Squadron Commander Colonel Andrei Grachev, call sign "Zmey-1," peered at the data streaming in on a secure channel from an A-50U AWACS aircraft circling hundreds of kilometers behind them.

  "Berkut, this is Zmey-1. I have targets on my Zhuk-A onboard radar complex screen. Confirming composition: two dozen large surface targets, class identified as 'dragon carrier,' ten as 'ship-of-the-line.' In the air, sixteen air cover assets, low thermal signature, low speed, classified as wyvern lords. They're moving at a turtle's pace, the arrogant bastards."

  "Copy that, Zmey-1," the calm voice of the air controller from the A-50U came through the headset. "You are cleared hot. The enemy can't see you; their primitive magical sensors don't have the range or altitude capability. You are authorized to engage primary targets—the dragon carriers. Suppress their air defenses and air groups before the attack aircraft begin the second phase of the mop-up."

  Grachev gave a barely perceptible nod, his fingers in thin flight gloves resting on the weapons controls.

  "Zmey squadron, copy. Splitting into elements. Objective is to destroy the carrier platforms. We are engaging with Kh-35U anti-ship missiles. Two missiles per target. I'm taking the flagship. Launch on my command."

  With a sharp hiss and a burst of flame, the missiles launched from the underwing pylons. After their initial boost, the Kh-35U anti-ship missiles descended to an altitude of ten feet above the water and, igniting their turbojet sustainer engines, raced toward their targets at Mach 0.8.

  For the Parpaldian fleet, accustomed to threats appearing on the horizon and being visible through a spyglass for dozens of minutes before a battle, the attack came from nowhere. The alarm was raised by the lookouts in the highest crow's nests, whose trained eyes were the fleet's only "radar."

  "Strange waves! On the water! They're moving towards us!" one of them managed to shout, pointing at the thin, white wakes approaching the squadron at an unnatural speed.

  "I see them! What kind of creatures are those?! Sea serpents?!"

  Officers on the bridges raised their spyglasses in bewilderment, trying to make out these anomalies. No one could understand what they were. They were neither torpedoes (of which they had no knowledge) nor sea monsters. They were just tracks on the water, left by something incredibly fast. These seconds of confusion and disbelief cost them their lives.

  In the same instant the first missile struck the side of the flagship dragon carrier, the squadron ceased to exist. Forty missiles found their targets almost simultaneously, turning the pride of the imperial fleet into roaring pillars of fire. The wyvern lords, which had furiously launched into the sky in search of the invisible enemy, were coolly shot down by R-77 air-to-air missiles fired by the fighters from maximum range, without even realizing where death had come from. Within minutes, the backbone of the imperial invasion fleet had ceased to exist.

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  Meanwhile, on the shore, in the ruins of Nishinomiya-ko, a ground-level hell had been raging for two weeks. Fierce, positional battles were being fought from the ruins of the port city to the Kout Plains. Here, amidst the destroyed buildings and scorched fields, the elite imperial marine infantry clashed with the combined garrison of Fennese samurai and Russian PMCs. The air was thick with the smell of burning, gunpowder, blood, and sweat. The Parpaldians, with fanatical persistence, threw themselves into attacks, but their assault columns were either blanketed by precise mortar fire, corrected by drones, or cut down by "Pecheneg" machine guns set up in the ruins of buildings.

  The Fennese and the Russian contractors held the line, exhausted but not broken. Their losses were heavy. Eight hundred killed and thirteen hundred wounded Fennese warriors—for a Kingdom that had never participated in such meat grinders, it was a catastrophe. But they stood firm to the end.

  Parpaldia's losses were immeasurably higher. Over two thousand killed, three hundred wounded. But their command, blinded by fury, had no intention of retreating.

  Lieutenant General Dolbo, having received a new order—to bypass the defenses and strike at the rear—moved his three-thousand-man legion and thirty-two armored land drakes (lindwurms) on a flanking maneuver through a mountain pass. On the march, the legion stumbled upon a small Fennese village. To boost his troops' flagging morale, Dolbo gave the order: "Burn the village. Property and women are to be distributed to the soldiers as a reward."

  But a surprise awaited them in that village. As the first squads charged into the empty houses with whoops and hollers, the ground beneath their feet exploded. Russian sappers from the "Shield" PMC, anticipating this route, had turned the village into a minefield. OZM-72 "Frog" anti-personnel mines, hidden under the floorboards, leaped five feet into the air and detonated, turning the assault groups into bloody mince. Dozens of soldiers died instantly. The screams of the wounded echoed through the valley until morning.

  The legion, shaken and demoralized, continued its march. The soldiers, who just yesterday had been anticipating easy spoils, now walked sullenly, glancing around with superstitious dread. General Dolbo looked at his thinned, dispirited army with growing unease. But he knew: an order was an order. It was too late to turn back.

  At a concealed observation post, a sniper team from the "Shield" PMC, hidden in a "lyozhka" (a sniper's hide), had been motionlessly observing the trail below for several hours.

  "Berkut, this is Nest," the sniper with the call sign "Zubr" (Bison) whispered into his throat mic, his eye never leaving the scope of his 12.7mm ASVK rifle. "Enemy unit spotted. Moving northwest toward the Kout Plains. I count three thousand infantry, artillery, and thirty-two land drakes. How copy?"

  "Nest, this is Berkut, copy that. Change position and provide target designation for attack aviation. You copy?"

  "Copy, Nest."

  The sniper glanced at his partner. He nodded. Without wasting a second, they began to silently pack up their equipment. In this line of work, every second of delay could cost them their lives.

  Lieutenant General Dolbo, with great effort, pushing through the pain in his aching back, rolled over on the rough-hewn planks of his field cot. Waking was a heavy affair. A thick, nightmarish dream in which his legion was silently consumed by a firestorm descending from the heavens had once again torn him from the clutches of a short, anxious oblivion. Every new morning on this cursed march brought only more anxiety. He saw how with each leg of the journey, the morale of his soldiers, these hardened veterans, was slowly but inexorably fading, giving way to superstitious dread and a dull, impotent rage.

  By noon, the legion had finally crawled out of the shadowy mountain gorges and onto the Kout Plains. This land, stretching between the besieged Nishinomiya-ko and the distant, almost mythical capital of Amanoki, was a bleak, lifeless landscape. Sun-scorched, cracked soil, covered with sparse, thorny bushes, stretched to the very horizon. The foot of man had not touched this place for a long time, and the only sound was the mournful howl of the wind, chasing clouds of reddish dust across the plain.

  The Lieutenant General gave the order to make camp and prepare for the decisive push. His plan was simple and effective: one part of the legion would engage the defenders of Nishinomiya-ko in battle, while the second, main force, would bypass the city and strike at its rear, cutting it off from the Fennese capital.

  Dolbo slowly rode his horse along the ranks forming up in battle order, his fingers mechanically toying with an unusual trophy. It was a simple watch with a leather strap, devoid of any adornment. A prize team had brought it to him after the first, failed assault on the coast. They said they had taken it from the body of one of the slain Russian contractors. Since then, Dolbo couldn't take his eyes off it. He had never seen anything like it in his life. This small, almost weightless object was the embodiment of some transcendent, incomprehensible craftsmanship. A smooth, matte metal case, perfectly transparent glass as hard as a diamond. And beneath it, on a black dial, three thin hands moved smoothly and absolutely silently, counting time with a precision that seemed magical, almost divine. He remembered how, not long ago in the capital, he had admired the massive, wardrobe-sized grandfather clock in his duke friend's house, which had cost a fortune. But it seemed like a crude, primitive craft compared to this elegant mechanism.

  "What other monstrous, incomprehensible technologies do these Russians possess?" This thought, cold and sticky as a snake, returned to him again and again. "If this is what their common soldier wears on his wrist, then what are their generals armed with?" These reflections weighed on him, mingling with fatigue and dark premonitions. The fear of a crushing defeat fought in his soul with the desire to drop everything, to desert, to return home to his wife and children. But he pushed these thoughts away. He was a general of the Empire. And for him, flight meant not only eternal disgrace but also a terrible retribution for his entire family. There was no way out.

  "AIR! TAKE COVER! AIR!" The desperate, cracking shriek of a lookout stationed on the back of a lindwurm made Lieutenant General Dolbo snap his head up.

  In the high, clear sky, almost white from the heat, a tiny black dot had appeared. It wasn't flying. It was falling, rapidly and unnaturally, like a dagger thrown from the heavens. A cold, clammy sweat instantly broke out on the general's forehead. The dot grew with every fraction of a second, transforming into a predatory, angular silhouette, glinting in the sun. It moved in absolute silence, and this silence was more terrifying than any roar. And in the moment the object broke the sound barrier, the silence exploded. A deafening, crushing clap that blocked the ears and shook the ground struck the plain. And then came the roar.

  "An iron dragon…" someone among the soldiers whispered with superstitious horror.

  It was the newest Russian Su-59M "Grach-E" attack aircraft, which the PMCs were testing in real combat conditions. It began its deadly dance. At the same moment, from the camouflaged position of "Berkut," a thin, barely visible laser beam shot upward, illuminating the densest group of lindwurms for the attack aircraft's onboard computer.

  "Ground, target is lased. You are cleared to engage," the calm voice of the forward air controller came through the pilot's headset.

  "Copy, Ground. Commencing attack run."

  The air shuddered from a deafening, guttural roar. Two paired six-barreled GSh-6-30 30mm cannons spewed a squall of fire and steel. High-explosive-incendiary rounds, designed specifically to destroy infantry and light armored vehicles, began to methodically plow through the ranks of the Parpaldian legion. Soldiers who didn't even have time to understand where death had come from were torn into bloody shreds. The huge lindwurms, encased in thick bone plates, the pride of the legion, were helpless. The rounds easily pierced their armor and exploded inside, turning the mighty reptiles into gigantic, screaming chunks of flesh and fire.

  The Kout Plains had become a hellish meat grinder.

  General Dolbo, watching this from his foxhole, felt the last thing he had left—the will to fight—abandon him. He watched as on the crest of the hill, next to the first one, more and more silhouettes of these steel monsters appeared, until there were more than a dozen of them. "This isn't war," he realized with an icy terror. "This is extermination."

  From the west, from behind a low hill, slowly but inexorably, like giants from ancient myths, new figures appeared. Massive, low-slung, and angular. They were Russian tanks.

  His hands were shaking uncontrollably, and a continuous, high-pitched ringing filled his ears. The Kout Plains, just minutes ago the deployment area for his proud legion, had turned into a smoking, screaming hell. His entire legion, his pride, had been virtually annihilated in a few minutes by a single pass of the steel dragons that swept through like the wrath of God.

  But the most desperate and hardened of his veterans, those in whose hearts discipline and fury had overcome primal terror, were not going to die silently. Captain Valerian, commander of the legion's attached artillery battery, his face black with soot, blood streaming from a gash above his eyebrow, roared orders to his surviving cannoneers.

  "To the guns! Move it! Target those beasts on the hill! Load with grapeshot… no, solid shot!"

  Several crews of the elite imperial guard, dragging the light field artillery that had survived the air strike—6-pounder bronze cannons on wooden carriages—turned them towards the lone tank that had appeared on the crest of the hill. With desperate cries of "For the Empire! For the Emperor!" they fired a ragged but furious volley.

  Inside the lead T-90M, in the semi-darkness illuminated only by the green glow of the displays, the tank commander, Senior Lieutenant Oleg Vorobyov, call sign "Topaz-1," just gave a crooked smirk. He watched the commotion through the commander's panoramic sight, and it was like watching a historical movie.

  "Go on, then. Show me what you've got," he muttered.

  Several red indicators flashed for a moment on his tactical display.

  THREAT. INCOMING. AZIMUTH 3-4-0. RANGE 1500. TYPE: LOW-VELOCITY KINETIC PROJECTILE the onboard computer reported dispassionately.

  And in the next second, a barely audible, dry, pattering sound rattled against the tank's top armor, like hail drumming on a roof. It was the "Afganit" active protection systems, mounted on the turret, firing their counter-munitions, turning the incoming cast-iron cannonballs into a cloud of harmless metal dust while still in the air. Only one ball, fired with exceptional luck, broke through the screen and, with a dull "BOOM!", struck a "Relikt" reactive armor block on the turret's cheek.

  There was a small, localized explosion that completely absorbed the energy of the primitive projectile, leaving only a black, greasy smudge of soot on the armor. Inside the tank, the crew felt only a slight jolt, no stronger than hitting a pothole.

  "Topaz-1 to Topaz-Actual. We're taking fire from… cannons," Vorobyov reported over the secure channel, a note of genuine, almost childlike surprise in his voice. "No losses, no damage. The armor's holding, they didn't even scratch it. Request permission to suppress enemy firing positions? We have a lock on them from the flashes."

  "Permission granted, Topaz-1. Use high-explosive. Conserve the AP rounds, we'll need them later," the calm, slightly weary voice of the battalion commander came through the headset.

  The tank came to a halt. Its turret, weighing over a dozen tons, rotated smoothly and almost silently with the low hum of hydraulics. The gunner centered the crosshairs on the group of figures scurrying around their guns.

  "Target acquired."

  "High-explosive. Fire!"

  The 125mm 2A46M-5 cannon fired. The deafening, sharp crack made the multi-ton machine shudder. The high-explosive fragmentation shell, covering a mile in a second and a half, detonated precisely in the center of the Parpaldian battery. For Captain Valerian and his men, it was all over in an instant, in a blinding flash and a wave of pain. The explosion turned their cannons, their crews, and their desperate bravery into a bloody chaos of splintered wood, twisted bronze, and torn flesh.

  "Lord Lieutenant General! General!" a frantic voice cut through the chaos of battle. Yosh, a young officer, was shaking General Dolbo by the shoulders. "We can't hold! The soldiers are bunched up like sheep! If we don't surrender, they'll just wipe us out! The lindwurms are gone! Captain Valerian is dead, our artillery is useless!"

  "They'll execute us anyway," the general answered hollowly, almost inaudibly. "We invaded their allied land. We burned villages. They won't forgive that."

  "Lord Lieutenant General, if we don't surrender, none of us will survive! Right now, there's at least a chance to save these boys' lives!"

  The general let out a heavy sigh. The sigh was the sound of complete, final defeat.

  "Yosh… you're right. Raise the banner. Turn it upside down. Let them see that the Lion of the Empire has been vanquished."

  "Topaz, this is Raven-7. I have movement from the enemy's side. They're carrying an inverted banner. Looks like they've decided to surrender. How copy?"

  "Raven, this is Topaz. Copy that. Hold your fire. Proceed according to protocol for prisoners of war. Calling in motorized infantry for escort."

  The commander of the lead tank switched to the external loudspeaker:

  "ATTENTION, TROOPS OF THE PARPALDIA EMPIRE! YOUR OFFER OF SURRENDER IS ACCEPTED. I ORDER YOU: ALL PERSONNEL, LAY DOWN YOUR WEAPONS. FORM UP IN A COLUMN AND, WITH YOUR HANDS RAISED, ADVANCE TOWARDS THE HILL. ANY ATTEMPT AT RESISTANCE WILL BE MET WITH EXECUTION ON THE SPOT."

  The Parpaldian soldiers, slowly and cautiously, began to comply. As they approached, IFVs moved out from behind the tanks, and Russian motorized infantry disembarked.

  "ON YOUR KNEES! HANDS BEHIND YOUR HEADS!"

  The prisoners were forced to their knees, searched, and their hands zip-tied behind their backs. One of the imperial officers, outraged by this treatment, tried to shout something. He was immediately knocked to the ground with a rifle butt.

  "Anyone else want to argue?" a military police sergeant asked loudly, a mocking tone in his voice. There was no reply.

  Disarmed and bound, they were herded like cattle into the backs of military "Ural" trucks. Their destination was clear: a filtration camp, interrogations by FSB operatives, and then, hard labor in the mines in the deserts of the Kingdom of Quila. They were no longer soldiers of the Empire. Now, they were just shadows.

  The Russian forces, meanwhile, wasting not a single second of their precious tactical advantage, transitioned from their battle formation into a marching column. Commanders received new, encrypted orders via satellite link, and the steel river of armored vehicles, kicking up clouds of reddish dust, surged toward Nishinomiya-ko. There, in the labyrinth of the city's ruins, scattered pockets of resistance still snapped back, but their fate was already sealed.

  For them, the final, most terrible phase of the operation had begun. "The Cleanup." Batteries of TOS-1A "Solntsepyok" (Blazing Sun) heavy flamethrower systems and "Tornado-G" multiple launch rocket systems, having moved into pre-prepared positions, began their methodical, almost surgical work. Thermobaric and incendiary rockets, one after another, screamed into the gray sky and rained down on pre-scouted resistance nodes, turning entire city blocks into a roaring inferno. Where, according to "Orlan-10" drone data, the remnants of the Parpaldian marine infantry had been hiding just minutes before, now there was nothing but scorched, charred earth and melted stones.

  After this wall of fire, the PMC special forces moved in. Cleanup groups, moving under the cover of IFVs, methodically "cleared" the surviving cellars, sewers, and ruins. They took no prisoners. Behind them, like a funeral detail, came the evacuation service, collecting their due: surviving but abandoned Parpaldian equipment, and most importantly—the fallen. Into the refrigerated "Ural" trucks, marked with a red cross, soldiers carefully, with a silent sorrow, loaded hermetically sealed zinc coffins containing the bodies of their fallen comrades, the PMC contractors. They were going home.

  At the same time, aboard the flagship, still anchored off the coast, the atmosphere was one of fury and impotence.

  "General Sios…" the manacomm operator, pale, with trembling hands, cautiously entered the admiral's cabin.

  The General stood at the map table, his powerful figure seeming to slump under the weight of the catastrophe. The red lines on the map, marking the vectors of his legions' attacks, now looked more like bleeding wounds.

  "IDIOTS! VICTORY WAS IN OUR GRASP!" his roar, full of pain and rage, echoed through the cabin. He slammed his fist on the table with such force that the carved oak cracked. "STUPID CATTLE! How could you lose an entire legion?! How could you fail the landing?! General Dolbo is a coward and a traitor! I will personally flay the skin from his bones when we return to Esthirant!"

  The manacomm operator, a young aristocrat who found such rage nauseatingly terrifying, cleared his throat respectfully, trying to get his attention.

  "What else do you have to report?!" Sios snarled, not even looking at him. "Another dose of bad news?!"

  "F-f-from the southwest, General, sir," the operator exhaled, trying to keep his voice steady, "according to air reconnaissance from our wyvern lords, twelve enemy ships are approaching. They're moving very fast. And… they have no sails."

  Sios whipped around. His eyes narrowed dangerously, a flicker of confusion on his face that was instantly replaced by a contemptuous, arrogant smirk.

  "Twelve? Are you joking, boy?" he slowly approached the operator and looked down at him. "Twelve pathetic little tubs against our one hundred and eighty-three ships-of-the-line, dragon carriers, and frigates? They're not even a threat to us! Have they decided to commit mass suicide?"

  "No, sir, General… the data has been confirmed by three independent squadrons," the young man stammered, feeling a trickle of cold sweat run down his back.

  "Twelve ships against my armada?" Sios burst out laughing. A loud, self-assured laugh of a man who was absolutely certain of his victory, even after a crushing defeat on land. For him, a naval commander, these were two different wars. "Excellent! Just excellent! Relay to the entire fleet: prepare for battle! We will grind these insolent fools to dust! Let this be a lesson to all who dare to challenge the Great Parpaldia Empire!"

  He did not yet know that his fleet, all his pride and power, was already condemned. And that these twelve ships were merely the vanguard of a force that had come to execute that sentence. This battle would not be a lesson for them. It would be their end.